[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

Blackstar

She lifts her butt cheek and plucks the G-string out of the crack, adjusts her dress hem down a smidge, and pushes off up the driveway into the milky dawn. The latch on the gate is stuck hard in the receiver by decades of sloppily layered paint, the current scheme being something akin to what her mother had always described as 'ducktymud'; an unfortunate brownish-orange. She pushes down hard with both hands but the latch won't budge. The boundary is a ratty low box hedge but being quite short she has to hike her leg up high to get across it. The cool breath of dawn and the untrimmed hedge ends tickle her as she straddles it and in an explosion of laughter she falls across to the other side. A little wee escapes. Oh gawd. She pinches the smile out of her face smudging her makeup, rolls over on to her knees, laughs again and hiccups. A spoonful of hot sick bubbles into her throat. Oh gawd.

She scans the small curtained windows above but nothing moves. She spits and wipes a little lingering spittle into the torn shoulder frill of her cocktail dress. Black is always a wise choice for a Friday night. Like a puppet on a string she gathers her limbs up and stands wobbling in the half light of the July morning. The night's music echoes in her head. She doesn't recognise the street, but the red brickwork, mock Tudor beams and tightly packed motors along the kerbside give her a fair idea of what part of town she is in. Score! But then it's a drag to realise that she faces a long-ass walk all the way home.

She fishes her bag out of the hedge, untwists the clasp and takes out her phone. F**k. A spider's web crack sits smugly in the centre of the screen. It is 6.02 AM. Adopting a well-practised and defensive pessimism she takes an itinerary of the remaining contents - Key, check. Assorted lip products, one - two - three, check. No wait, four. Four? Bramley apple flavoured B-Sting lip Gloss. That's not mine! She turns it in her fingers, focuses in and out on the minute writing - 'For that Bee-Stung look'. She pats her lips. Eh? Oh gawd, filching again. Cash - 200 euros, rising panic. She'd left home with 60 and had had the sense to leave her debit card in her knickers drawer. What else? Two foil-wrapped condoms, attached to each other. There had been twelve soldiers in the box when she'd kissed her mother goodbye. Major panic. Her brain goes into overdrive, she grabs herself in front and back. Bridge to Engineering! Damage report Mr Scott! We've vented a wee bit of plasma Captain but other than that we're in good shape. Must have given them to Marc. What the f**k happened to Marc? F**K Marc. I couldn't have used nine f**king Johnnies! She casts her line into the TARDIS-like purse again. A small baggy of a white dust-like substance of indeterminate identity and origin, a driver's license with a photo of some blonde bird called Gemma, a canister of pepper spray ... Hang on! This isn't my bag! There's a movie clip in her head; all glitchy and scratched. There is lurching, there is falling, there is dancing and ... and the Ladies toilet. Waving at the automatic tap, slipping on a pool of water, and, ah, there she is. Gemma. Same bag, SNAP! Fancy that! There is Tequila. Lots of Tequila. There are linked arms, a hand dropping. Oh gawd. She looks up at the window. Squints. Nada. She has zero recollection of what happened behind that curtain. She reads the license card again, studies the photo. Gemma Wells. Simply. Stunning. Nah, surely not with a woman. There is also an ID tag. Gemma Wells OB/GYN. She's only a fricking fanny doctor! Well that makes sense.

She rifles the bag for more treasure. Her scrabbling fingers fall upon a cold metallic object. She draws it out into the light. Its beauty is almost frightening. It is a Mercedes key fob.

She slowly totters round one hundred and eighty degrees. A silver Mercedes C-Class Coupe lounges at the kerbside. It looks freshly unwrapped.

She raises the fob and squeezes. The locks disengage with a clunk so smooth it steals a little of her breath away. The driver's door pops open, just an inch, an invitation. The engine sets to humming.

Oh sweet devine. She claps her hands to her face to stifle a laugh and smudges her lippy up onto her cheeks.

Her gaze swings back to the window, then up and down the silent street. A robin stands brazenly on the gate latch, egging her on.

Hadn't her mother always warned her never to get into a stranger's car? She steps closer.

A voice drifts through the narrow gap in the open door, a siren voice that startles her at first, then intrigues as it seems familiar.

She leans forward.

Rebel Rebel You've torn your dress

Well Gemma obviously has good taste in men. And delivered through the Burmester 3D Surround Sound System Bowie has never sounded so good.

She hooks a painted nail behind the door and ever so gently pulls it back. It opens with all of the ease with which the other half round here live.

Hadn't her mother always warned her not to talk to strangers?

Hi David. May I come in?

You've got your mother in a whirl 'cause she's
Not sure if you're a boy or a girl

Funny guy. She slides into the driver's seat. The leather is like a lover's skin against her own. She closes the door. Hermetically sealed, it has the feel of a cockpit and she is the pilot. Sitting at the heart of the wrap-around technology that she understands so well is like having a universe of possibilities at her command. She flicks and swipes her way through every function as if performing a pre-flight checklist.

Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess

She adjusts the mirror and checks her face.

You're not wrong David. The only colouration that does not slide across her face is the tiny Blackstar tattoo below her left eye that Marc had given her on her first anniversary in juvie. He'd explained to her what a Blackstar was and about the irresistibility of its gravitational pull and that this symbol meant that there that was no escape from his love for her. The f**king knob end.

Hey babe, your hair's alright
Hey babe, let's stay out tonight

uh huh. She musses her hair in the mirror then runs her fingers through it to put some manners on it.

Let's have some of that Bramley Apple shall we. She freshens her lips, feels the capsicum burn, purses and pats and pouts. I think it's actually working! And it really does taste of Bramley apple pie David!

You've got your transmission and your live wire

Yes I do David. And I've also got a state of the art 302 horsepower V-6 engine beneath my ass.

She presses down on the accelerator. Oh f**k me Jesus! She could cry.


Sh*t David, what am I doing?

You want more and you want it fast

She places her hands at ten and two and thinks about that.

The crown of the new sun births at the end of the avenue. It makes silhouettes of everything and lays down a tangerine runway along the centre of the road. She licks her index finger, dabs it into the baggy and rubs the grit across the front of her gums. She savours the burn as the sunlight crawls up the bonnet and onto the windscreen. She sucks and swallows. Oh gawd. Top sh*t Gemma. You naughty, naughty girl.

The stick falls into first at the merest suggestion of a push and her bare foot finds the bite. She lifts her butt cheek, puts her hand up her dress and straightens out her cock.

Right then David. Let's go.

Well done Mr. E, a well deserved win!

redser7 wrote: »

Oh thank Christ I got at least one vote!!

You haven't lived until you got a nil vote.

I usually manage it :pac:

redser7 wrote: »

Aw, don't give up hope! You never know ...

Never give up hope? I never had any to give up :pac:

I know my limitations redser and I really don't care whether or not I get a vote in my favour, just as long as folks enjoy my writing I have no worries about whether they like it best.

Yeah me too.

I don't have a free night this week, but maybe next week?

and me please

How about a VOAT story? Maybe Sunday to Sunday?

Since there are a few people interested in writing, I thought a VOAT might help get more people involved. Strike while the iron is hot.

I am up for anything to be honest as I have not written anything for a while now

here is my entry for the festival arena thingy.

"Oh my lord" The words came from deep inside the multi coloured and heavily carpeted tent. The small and slight figure sat hunched over a desk made from a few items of luggage, and his gaily coloured outfit was shining and twinkling in the dim light cast by a flickering candle.

"What the hell is wrong with you now Wormy?" The big waist coated man with his shirt sleeves rolled up to emphasise his size and his strength sniffed almost without care at the smaller man.

"My name is Vernie, Groucher. " the mild irritation in his eyes was a sure sign that he was near to breaking point.

"Mr Groucher to you Wormy" The big man spoke gruffly, and anyway you get your act in order or you leave. You have until the show tonight." He stomped out of the tent kicking at a second smallish figure as it entered the tent. The small figure dodged out of the way and a deep blood chilling growl escaped from a four legged figure behind it. Groucher gulped and spun out of the tent in a flurry of shirt tails.

The second figure ran into the tent and hugged Vernie tightly around the neck. "Oh Vernie what are we to do, he owns the company and he hates us?"

"Well, I have been thinking about leaving anyway Margy, I want to go out into the wide world. "

"I think that is impossible, you know the act is no longer bringing people in as it used to, and you are banned from performing in big establishments. Vernie why on earth did you do something so stupid?"

Vernie sighed deeply it was an old old argument he had been an amazingly good illusionist until he told a newspaper reporter how he did a trick and the next thing he was being held up as an example to all magicians and illusionist of what happens if your idiocy allows you to break the rules.

"I don't care any more Margy, all I want is to get out of this hell pit. I will find something to do." He sighed deeply one more time. He then stopped and tilte his head as though he had heard something. "What is that?"

"I have no idea Vernie it sounds like a bit of music, It sounds like your old musical intro to be honest,"

Vernie agreed and stepping out of the tent he peered around to see what was going on. There was a group of untidy men and women standing around with musical instruments and they were being interviewed by Groucher.

Groucher was irritated by something, he grabbed at an elderly woman and shook her and told her to get away from him and threw here to one side. He stormed off into his big caravan, which hadn't moved in many years. Vernie, cracked at the sight of this and he ran screaming at the caravan. Kicking open the door he launched himself through the door, Margy and her huge canine companion (Wolfram) Looked on at this sudden display of manly rage from Vernie. After a bull roar from Groucher and Vernie's scream there followed a crashing and rocking of the caravan.

Vernie came flying out of the door horizontally, his face all battered, and Groucher appeared at the door and snarled through bloodied lips for Vernie to leave.

Margy and the group of musicians ran over to help Vernie to his feet. Margy was all careful and at the same time motherly , she had never seen him this way before and didn't know what to do . But instead of being furious Vernie was laughing. His face was battered and bruised and he had been given a hiding by Groucher, but he was laughing.

Margy was unsure what to make of this. Vernie looked at her and winked. Walking away he gestured to the band to follow him and they did, all of them, and the still confused Margy. "What happened Vernie?"

"Look at this," he smiled at them all, " Groucher was so mad he threw this at me and it is full. It is all our salaries that Groucher has not paid us for years. We can free ourselves."

"And do what?"

"We can start our own little town festival"

That's it so I think? A draw. Thanks Rebecula. Man, it's quiet round here. Or is it?

That was the second time I got Festival as the theme for The Arena. Anyways...

Anyone want to go again...

How about a VOAT now?

I'm here whenever you're ready.